It turns out I was killing the birds. I gave them what they wanted, what they craved: suet packed with seeds, hung swinging on the sycamore

with chains. Suet brought the downy, the bellied, brought small clinging birds from the sadness of the woods. It fattened them. It readied them

for winter. But with spring came the melting world: too rich, too much weakened their bones. And snapped them.

                                             You were light as a whisper when you lay on me. I ran my fingers over your chest as though I were dressing you in air—the only clothes

I would ever want on you. Still, the mockingbird wants it the most, diving at the other birds, driving them away, his gray black white reel of wings—so fierce,

I can’t even take it back. I never knew he would be angry, this bird I’ve heard so much about, sung about in songs, the one I was supposed to buy my baby, the one

who learned my baby’s cries.

                                             There’s sun on the porch and I want you so bad I think I might die. I have hurt you 

harder than anyone has ever. I don’t know what is right. I don’t know whose turn it is to beg, to cry, to be wronged, to be wanted. All I know is when you lay down on me,

I felt no weight. And when you touched my breasts, they began to weep. And when I said I was sorry, sorry, I am so so sorry, you lowered your head to my chest and drank.